Farenheit 9/11

Bringing hitherto undiscovered decibels to the term ‘megaphone diplomacy’, Michael Moore strides into cinemas with this superbly entertaining Bush-bashing documentary. Playing very much like a Moore Greatest Hits package, Fahrenheit 9/11 sees everybody’s favourite opinionated slob doing what he does best – being hilariously venomous at his President’s expense, hitting the streets of Flint, attacking corporate interests, playing pranks on politicians, ‘standing up for the little guy’ and ranting quite a bit.
Ostensibly an investigation into links between the US government (ie the Messrs Bush and assorted cronies) and the Saudis, Fahrenheit broadens out to encompass everything from grieving parents, media complacency, big business, opportunistic interference in civil liberties and unemployment rates in Michigan.
Okay, as an actual movie, it’s hardly the most deserving of Palme D’Or winners. In strict documentary terms, Fahrenheit may be the unlikely director’s most cinematic and important work to date, but it lacks the originality of Errol Morris’ output, the brutality of Frederick Wiseman or any semblance of balance. Still, how could the French resist some anti-Imperialist diatribe? How could anyone?
In the long run, Moore’s post-Bowling For Columbine beatification in the European press, in particular, may well result in the mother of all backlashes; something to perhaps even rival David Beckham’s fall from tabloid grace (if such an oxymoron is permissible). Heaven knows, it’s not like the rabble-rouser’s enemies can’t find plenty of just cause. Even discounting the US media’s tendency to interpret the smallest gesture of dissidence as national treachery (Fox News predictably dismissed the baseball-decked one in Fahrenheit 9/11 as “Running around telling the world what a bad place America is”), it would be myopic not to take issue with his incredibly selective presentation of facts, or his tendency toward stupendous self-aggrandisement.
His polemic may be heartfelt, noble, fascinating and brilliantly amusing, but occasionally his ire does get the better of him. There are several strategically placed smoking guns throughout Fahrenheit – the value of gold rocketing in the aftermath of 9/11, the Bush clan’s links to the Bin Laden dynasty, various swelling stock portfolios – that seem determined to court the worst kind of conspiracy nut.
In his defence, it might be argued, one can only fight dogma with dogma. As the American Right become more entrenched, it’s logical for this champion lampoonist to respond in kind. Besides, when was the last time dialectical argument had a place in politics? In a sphere defined by spin and rhetoric, smoke and mirrors, Moore’s presentation is hardly unreasonable, and he’s compellingly passionate about the material.
That’s not to dismiss Fahrenheit’s content. It’s depiction of a chilling network of vested interests makes for shocking viewing. And most will broadly agree with Moore’s broadside – powerful industrial lobbies do reign supreme on Capitol Hill, the Army does depend on the lowest socio-economic castes for recruits. Equally, his contention that America’s embryonic war psychosis was manipulated and exacerbated by paranoid press and the powers-that-be is far from controversial. Oh, and he might just be onto something when he postulates that George Bush is a buffoon.
The real power of the project, however, lies in Moore’s canny ability to link the grassroots to realpolitik. It’s difficult not to be incredibly moved by Flint resident Lila Lipscomb’s story. A ‘conservative Democrat’ who used to despise anti-war protests, Lila loses her son in the Iraq war, and is left wondering what the hell her boy was doing in the desert. Similarly, Moore’s down-home examination of dwindling police funding and universal budget cuts where they hurt most contradicts the notion of an America bolstering itself and domestic security.
This ‘rich get richer, poor get shafted’ theme is infinitely more fecund than the speculative links between George Bush and the Saudis, even if the latter makes for better copy. As the President addresses a fundraising event with the words “Some people call you the elite. I call you my power-base”, it somewhat undermines the idea of government ‘for the people, by the people’.
It’s impossible not to admire Moore’s attempt to drag issues of representation into the public forum and his incredible ability to sugar-coat a rather socialist pill for an American public traditionally suspicious of such things. He plays to the gallery exceptionally well here, inserting humour at every available opportunity. It helps, of course, that he’s been gifted with a proverbial barrel of fish at which to take aim. As ghoulish as the film’s Republican subjects are, they make for blackly wonderful comedy. Between Rumsfeld’s immortal “There are no good targets in Afghanistan” and John Ashcroft’s unspeakably vile political power-ballad Let The Eagle Soar (we would venture not to give up the day job, but, you know…) there’s plenty of fun to be had. Best of all, though, is clown prince George Jr. I would hate to spoil his antics by relating them in detail, but while Nero played the violin as Rome burned, George’s response to looming disaster involved reading ‘My Pet Goat’.
On a related note, please feel free to cut out and keep the immortal gallery of rogues, iconoclasts and strumpets listed above as participants. If you can find a better cast list in this, or any other year, we’ll doff our caps and stand you a drink. On the Editor’s tab, of course.